Her Body

Gated Wooded Body Dump

He needed to move her body.

The thought had plagued him for two weeks now. Two weeks since she had him over for a nightcap after the movie. Two weeks since she had laughed at his fumbling sexual advance. Two weeks since he had choked the laughter out of her as he watched her eyes pale.

It took longer than he expected. His hands still remembered the ache. She should have known better than to disrespect him. To make him angry like that.

Now she was just a body. And a problem.

Once his rage subsided, he devised an emergency plan. While he had plotted and planned killing often – usually for his stories – this had not been premeditated and he had no plan.

He unscrewed the light in the garage, opened the door. Nobody around at 2am. The trees made it hard to see from the road anyway. He backed into the garage. She only weighed 120, so putting her in the trunk was not a problem. He placed her on the plastic she used for a dropcloth and took the shovel that was hanging on the wall.

No blood, strangling works well for that.

Funny, her eyes were still open and the whites turned to grey. He’d have to remember that detail for his stories. They never showed that in the movies.

A month ago he made a random stop at the rest area on I-75. Too much Gatorade. He had noticed a wooded area adjacent. “Perfect body dump” he thought. “No one goes back there.” The gate was unlocked.

It was after 3am when he backed into the space. He wrapped the body, looked for witnesses and quickly moved it inside the gate.

The soil was clay. It was hard to dig and he was covered in it. He only buried her a few feet down, doubled over. Rigor hadn’t yet set it, thank God. He left it unwrapped so the decay would happen quickly. He hastily covered it with clay and leaves.

Then he was gone.

But for two weeks now, the body had occupied his fears. It wasn’t deep enough. Anyone could walk a dog or find the gate and woods a curiosity. He imagined some tourist from Madison, Wisconsin taking their toy poodle for a walk and finding it.

Every day he scoured the news to see if a body had been discovered. None. The stench would likely be strong now. Damn. Someone was sure to find it.

“But what would they find?” he argued with himself. “A dead woman. They would link it to her missing person report. No ties to you in any way. You used a fake name even in your profile.”

Still the thoughts nagged.

He decided he had to do it. He bought lye. He found a secluded spot 100 feet from a logging access road in the mountains and dug a proper grave. It took him all night.

The next night, strengthened by a fifth of bourbon, he drove to the rest area. At 3am it was deserted. He moved quickly through the gate and found the gravesite.

Empty.

 

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Comfort

Couple in Romantic Embrace

He woke up late.

Typically an early riser, He had been up for hours in the night for no apparent reason. He finally slothed out of bed at 7am, put on coffee and showered.

He checked His emails. 26 from one client. All negative with a last pointed one leveling a personal attack on His competency and character. That one was marked “Urgent” as if assailing His ego was the most important piece of information to convey.

Not much made Him angry. He was fuming.

He wanted Her. Just a lingering hug. Just Her compassionate ear while He vented. But She was 100 miles away at Her office. He aired His frustrations in an email and went about His day. By 7pm He was finally done working, spent.

His chest ached for the push of Her’s against it, His arms enveloping Her. The smell of Her hair as He nuzzled against her neck.

Once She came in, She called. It wasn’t the same as Her touch, Her smell, but it was much needed solace. She listened. She cared. It was a warm hug.

They talked about Her week as well. Better than His, though with frustrations of its own. Partnership.

They made plans to be together over the weekend. He looked forward to it, to Her voice, Her touch, Her smell, Her body. Laughter. Joy.

The good times with Her were always amazing. Her care, Her love made even the bad times a fuzzy memory.


Squash

This is the kind of writing I want to be doing – I love the word pictures in this piece, written by one of my blogger friends:

https://ottohandling.wordpress.com/2015/07/05/squash/

Jealousy and Anger

I have a sick feeling in my stomach listening to Kevin, Wayland and Jasper. Three smug punks are missing a squash partner. They are inviting me to play. I hide under sunglasses and this stupid cap, indoors because I’m a coward tapping a screen in the middle of a panic attack.

I can’t play now. I want to throw up but not in front of them. You should hear them talking about you. They are so attracted to you. You’re beautiful, charming, fit. They brag about what you said to them, as if every word were an annointing from the Holy Spirit. I loathe them in Jesus’ name on a Sunday morning, because I think you like it.

I want to know what they whisper to you in private corners and in dimly lit chambers. I imagine you texting them huggy emotions, revelling in the attention, wanting them to want you, hoping they’ll crave you.

I can see you picking through them like fruit at the market. Caressing this one, squeezing that one, sniffing that one until you put them all in your basket for a rainy day.

Remember that mug you gave me? With all of my might, I slammed it against the wall thinking about that. Last night.


Priority

Priority

Ten months ago. Late night. Texting.

They had shared a moment earlier in the day. Her parents staying in the tiny Suess house with her were pushing all her buttons. She had reached out to him for advice, comfort and he had supplied. It was a warm hug for her.

Now, she retreated to the back of the garage, sat on the step, smoked and drank Red Caboose Cabernet Sauvignon straight from the bottle.

He liked her. She was sexy, funny, smart. He cared, in a way, but in the way he cared about several women. He drank Stoli and Fresca, sitting in his ox blood chair.

They had texted for hours.

He knew he was drunk. Tired drunk. They had been keeping each other up every night. He wanted to collapse in the bed and dream vodka dreams.

She wanted him to call. She pushed. He refused. She pushed more. Finally, irritatedly, he aquiesced.

“Why haven’t you driven down here and met me yet?” She was 2 hours away and they’d been talking for almost a month. She thought, justifiably, it was time.

He snapped at her: “Don’t you think if you were a priority I would have been there already?”

“Fuck you, Kevin.” Even now, this many months later, he could still hear her voice. She hung up.

He texted a drunken apology and went to bed.

Over the next week, they reconnected.

Today, thinking about her, he realized how far he had come, how far she had taken him. She was a priority. More than a priority . He missed her, but in a good way. It made him smile to think about that night and about how over the coming nights and weeks and months she had captivated his heart, his mind. She truly had all his heart.